


Oenothera

by ravenously



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Moon, it takes place in the 70s :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8302778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenously/pseuds/ravenously
Summary: A reclusive writer occasionally gets drunk and serenades the moon. One night, the moon takes human form and they find solace in each other's companionship.





	

Soft light filtering from a small lamp casts a warm, orange glow around the small study, illuminating the desk it sits on and not much else. Charlotte sighs hopelessly and looks around, trying to find an excuse to be distracted. The stone fireplace in the corner of the room has long gone cold, with only an occasional spark to remind its owner that it once blazed. She considers getting up to replenish the wood, but that would require moving through the rest of the empty, cold rooms of the cottage to grab some.

She focuses back on her work, staring at the two lines of word at the top of the paper for perhaps a minute before leaning back once more.

“ _C’mon_ , you useless piece of shit!” Her voice is a disappointed growl, cutting through the silent air like a knife. “Can’t even write a single _god_ damn word. A writer, my ass.”

Each one of her fingers, poised perfectly above the keys of the typewriter in the event that they suddenly have something to say, curl momentarily in frustration. Try as she might, there is no satisfying _click, click, click_ that means she’s actually producing thought on a page. Nothing but a nearly blank piece of paper, curling at the edges. 

Charlotte’s mind is as quiet as the room. She runs a hand down her face and mutters, “Fuckin’ useless.” Standing slowly from the rickety, old wooden chair, she winces slightly as the legs pull across the wood floor with a groaning screech. She doesn’t care about scratches; everything about the house is run-down. ‘Vintage.’ Out of the way. It’s why she lives here. 

She brushes her hair away from her face, and takes the few steps across the room to the window, picking up her glass tumbler of whiskey along the way. There’s no use forcing words onto a page. Her mind is already foggy, each thought a wisp of careless clouds slowly rising through the window and into the night sky. 

The moon is large, nearly orange at it stares down at Charlotte, watches as she drinks her glass down. She thinks it might be judging her, but then again, when isn’t it?

Sometimes, when Charlotte got exceedingly intoxicated and lost all facade of normalcy, she would go into the clearing behind her house and stare up at her muse, whispering drunken half-written lines of poetry, ad-libbing others on the spot while she lay in the grass, listening to serenading crickets and feeling the soft, feather-brushes of moths. Quiet love-confessions, sly wishes and hopes. Reminding herself of the soft satin feel of a dress she used to own. The forgotten crushes she remembered. Heartbroken stories from before the city grew too suffocating.

“Her hair was a cloud, ‘n her voice like bells… Y’would’ve thought her beautiful,” She’d say. Or: “Didn’t even speak to her; we just caught each other’s eyes across the room as she danced to disco. Twice. It was a _moment._ Had the moon in her eyes, ‘n _that’s_ a compliment, as y’know, Miss Moon.” 

Occasionally, she swore the moon would grow brighter, or dimmer based on their conversation. More likely, it was just her wavering drunken eyesight in the night, unable to focus for long. More than a few times, she fell asleep and would wake up at dawn, the moon having already said goodnight and giving way to weak, sleepy morning rays of sunlight.

She found herself on the porch again tonight, after refilling her glass. It’s chilly; she would grab a jacket if her skin wasn’t already rosy-red and warm from the drink. As it is, she merely shivers once before sitting down in the grass, leaning against the wooden frame of the porch and looking upwards towards the vast expanse.

It always struck her that despite a sky filled with so much nothingness, the moon could still fill entire landscapes with ethereal light. She wonders if she could fill such a large role, were their situations swapped. Would Charlotte fill the sky? Or contribute to the darkness that had plagued humanity since its creation? 

Are these states of melancholy dissatisfaction self-pitying? Of course they are. She isn’t a fool, and though she tries to numb herself from the reality of her life, ‘melancholy’ is an ever-present shadow. But it’s more productive to drown herself in drink each night and hope on a fleeting thought to propel her to a new writing breakthrough than to stay sober and rethink her life choices. At least here, drunk and sitting in dewy grass, she can pretend she has company in the moon, one woman to another.

Charlotte lets her face grow awash in the surprisingly bright moonlight as she turns her face upwards and offers a toast. May the moon guide her tonight; the only writing breakthroughs she’d ever had were mornings after she cried to the night sky.

“I always talk to you.” She murmurs, blinking tired eyes. “I’d kill t’hear your stories. You happy up there? You like to hear my pity parties? Fuck, I’d love to hear your voice.”

The moon seems bigger tonight. Is it her imagination? Her eyes not focusing correctly? But- No. 

She stands up, stepping away from the porch and squinting upwards, watching as the moon progressively gets bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter until she has to shield her eyes with her arm. Even if she didn’t, it would be too bright to see the source of the light come crashing down like a meteor. 

The tumbler in her hand falls, and she whips her head to catch it before it shatters. She nearly does, blindly grasping the tumbling glass, and curses when it falls from her grip. There’s the sound of the glass shattering against itself as she crouches, as well as a heavy thud several yards out, and when she looks back up, the light is gone. 

The yard slowly fades back to darkness, except for a peculiar light that emits from a form about forty feet away from her. The air smells like ozone and tastes like a mountain spring looks.

Charlotte stands back up, the glass tumbler forgotten. Her eyes widen and she shivers, carefully making her way across the yard. Each soft, cold press of dew upon her bare feet grounds her, focuses her, and by the time she gets to the form, she can see that it is a person, who is slowly moving to sit up. 

Large, grey eyes blink up at Charlotte, confusion and shock giving away to sheer pleasure as the form- a woman- seems to understand what’s going on. Her lips grow into sideways smile, almost hidden under a mountain of dark, curly hair.

The woman tries to get up and stumbles; Charlotte puts her hands out immediately, helping the woman up. She’s more than a foot shorter, slighter than Charlotte’s wide body. The woman continues to smile, meeting Charlotte’s eyes for as long as she’s able. 

Charlotte looks away, feeling as though she should drop her hands and back away. The woman is naked, but doesn’t seem to notice anything about her predicament, instead focusing solely on Charlotte. 

“.... Who- I-?” Charlotte’s tongue refuses to form words; she’s dumbfounded. 

“Your hands are so big.” The woman murmurs, fitting one of hers against the palm of Charlotte’s. It’s the only reason Charlotte doesn’t pull away. “Strong.” She interlocks their hands together, still held up in the air. “What a beautiful woman you are.” She doesn’t say Charlotte’s hands are manly, doesn’t mumble beneath her breath that she’s kidding herself, that she’s fooling herself, that she’s just confused and off and wrong, like everyone in Charlotte's life has ever said. She doesn’t alienate Charlotte in the same habitual, isolating maneuver that everyone in her past did; she accepts her immediately with just the linking of their hands and a slow, soft smile as she steps closer into Charlotte’s body.

Charlotte tries again. She wets her lips and tries not to blank out at the sensation of holding this woman’s hand. “...Who- Who are you?” She feels as though she knows, however. This woman speaks to her with familiarity, like Charlotte should know her.

The woman squeezes their hands together and laughs. “You do not know me? You speak to me nearly every night. You whisper to me all your secrets, all your love….” The woman ducks her head a little and looks at Charlotte through long, dark lashes. “Your desires.”

Charlotte looks behind her, at the small cold cottage. Her truck is rusted in the long gravel driveway, and paint is peeling from the porch’s old paint job. The light from her study window seems to be calling out for help, like a stranded dot of warmth in a cold, cold world. 

She looks back at the woman, and finds particles of stardust in the nebulous sweep of her hair. “Are you-” She feels stupid for even saying it. She must be drunker than she thought; this is impossible, is- Is idiotic of her to entertain. But still, she feels she knows the answer. “Are you the _moon_?” She looks up at the sky for a moment, and indeed, the celestial body of the moon is small and emitting little to no light, as though it’s shrouded under layers and layers of pollution. 

The Moon gives a tiny little nod, her smile becoming smaller, fonder than it was before. 

This smile is familiar, familiar in the ways that each night is a welcoming return. But it’s more than just that; The soft creases from laughter and smiling are as familiar to Charlotte as each of her other dreams. Bright eyes contrasted by the dark expanse of her skin are more than just breathtakingly beautiful, but a reminder, a reminder from long ago.

Charlotte has seen this face. When her hair was short and her mother called her ‘son,’ and the only being to call her by her true identity was a nameless woman with hair that curled like spiralling galaxies and a smile that held the knowledge of the cosmos in the curve of her lips. 

A voice framed by the soft gurgling of a brook as she sat at Charlotte and her mother’s campsite in the woods, holding the mug of hot chocolate Charlotte’s mother practically flung into the woman’s hands upon seeing her naked flesh in the cold night air. 

“I have listened to you each night you speak to me.” The moon drops one of Charlotte’s hands and lets the other fall to their sides, moving to Charlotte’s left so they can walk together, bare feet side by side. Charlotte sucks in a breath and stares at this woman, and is astounded that she looks exactly the same, exactly as mysterious. But then again, she is the moon.

Charlotte can remember the confusion in her mother’s eyes when the strange woman said “Your daughter is lovely, Miss Everest.”

The moon now says, “You said you wished to hear my voice. I-” She pauses for just a moment, looking at Charlotte with fond, thinly veiled want.

Charlotte denied the title of ‘daughter’ in the middle of the woods, but when she looked up at the soft greying fabric of their tent later that night, after the woman had accepted clothes and walked into the thick of the trees, blessings for the two of them on her tongue, tears had welled up in her eyes, something in her chest blooming outwards in a way nothing had before.

“I wanted your company, again.” The Moon’s words bring Charlotte out of her head, and she widens her eyes, nodding immediately. _Again._ She remembers, then.

Maybe Charlotte shouldn’t immediately trust a random naked woman who flew down from the sky like a meteor. But the fogginess in her brain paired with the intense trust she has long held for this mysterious woman, a woman who validated her when even she herself hid behind a wall of presumed social conditioning… It’s hard not to look at the Moon with want, need, something close to desire, rather than skepticism. 

She doesn’t want to, either.

There’s something so melancholy in the way the Moon asks for Charlotte’s company, and it emboldens her to stop where they are, pulling the Moon closer. She smiles nervously. “I’m glad to have it.” There’s still the fading embers of drink in her belly, but most of her intoxication is due to the Moon’s lovely voice, her presence, her being.

The smile Charlotte receives is dazzlingly bright, as bright as the aura that surrounds her companion. They walk around the yard, talking in low voices that seem to fill the entire clearing. 

“I watch people and animals and all things in the night.” The Moon tells Charlotte as they sit, close enough to the treeline that they can hear the nocturnal animals hunt and play and call out to one another. “But lately my eyes have been focused on you. Even in my slumber, I think of your words, your poetry. Your attention.” Her voice is as soft and sweet as the small yellow evening primrose that Charlotte finds growing at the edges of her property. They bloom only once the evening begins, serenading the night sky proudly. She picks them when she sees them and sticks them in the Moon’s hair. “I want to weep when you weep, laugh when you laugh. Isn’t that strange?”

Charlotte sucks in a breath, pushing a fat furry moth from one of the flowers in the Moon’s hair out of her face. The moth tickles where her fur brushes against Charlotte’s fingers before she flies off, seeking out other nighttime flowers. “Maybe. This whole thing is strange. I’m just tryin’ to…. Go with it. Not think too much about how crazy this is.” 

If she thinks, she’s panic, she’ll rationalize to herself that she doesn’t deserve this, that she doesn’t deserve a woman who knows her well and likes her company. She’ll rationalize to herself that she’s alone for a reason, that this is insane, isn’t real, can’t be real and-  
It’s easier to just. For once, allow the drink to take over her mind and let her enjoy what feels like an important moment. Freak out later.

“What are you thinking about, then?” The Moon asks. 

Freak out later, live now. So she thinks about: 

The soft pads on the Moon’s fingers when she brushes her hand along Charlotte’s skin. The warmth that radiates whenever she comes in close. The faint smell of ozone that seeps through the air whenever the Moon moves. The tickle of wayward, wild hair whenever it touches Charlotte’s face. The overwhelming feeling of being with another person. 

“You.” She breathes. 

The Moon smiles.

There’s an old radio that sits on the porch. Charlotte rarely uses it for more than just listening to the news, listening to talk shows when she misses the sound of human voices. It takes her a good ten minutes to remember some of the music stations; The Moon seems content to just watch her fiddle with it until music starts to fill the yard, at which point she jumps up and pulls Charlotte close.

They dance. 

Charlotte’s movements aren’t entirely graceful; she never learned to dance, and especially not with someone she actually liked. The Moon hums along to the radio, off-tune but still mesmerizing, so comfortable and free in her movements. 

Charlotte doesn’t recognize any of the music, but she will if she ever hears these songs again. She doesn’t often listen to music, so the station is just the hits, the top forty. The radio host names off artist after artist; Paul Simon, Wild Cherry, Wings, Johnny Taylor. A range from rock to disco, love ballads to power anthems. A multitude of mysterious, unknown names that still set the tone, set the pace. Sets the smile in the Moon’s face and the laughter that emits from her dancing form. Sets the relaxation in Charlotte’s shoulders, her body slowly loosening up.

Their dancing is less coordination and more touching. Quiet kisses, the pass of hands on flesh, the solace of being within an arm’s reach at all times. They never stop touching one another. After years of being alone, of choosing to isolate herself, it’s as though Charlotte’s grown ravenous.

She becomes ambitious.

“I never thought I’d know love, being who I am. Being- Growing up being told that I’m a freak, that I’m stupid, that I’m- Unnatural.” She can say things she’s bottled up inside of herself for years and years and years, never daring to say to others. They’re laying in the grass, staring upwards at the sky. “Even the rare person who wanted to understand couldn’t. ‘You’re just straight and confused’ is all my friends would say, and that was the nice shit. But you- You.” She swallows, looking at her and then away. It’s hard to keep eye contact. “You- You call me- you know I’m a woman, and you don’t blink twice at me or that I like you or that I-” She stops herself, not wanting to ramble forever. “You understand.”

The Moon rolls onto her side and kisses her in retaliation, no words needed. Each brush of her fingers says ‘you exist,’ and each press of her lips say ‘I’m grateful you do.’ 

Charlotte loses track of time, happy for the first time that she can remember.

Eventually, though, weak, pink light flutters in the horizon as the sun begins to stretch his rosy limbs, and the Moon frowns, before turning her attention back to Charlotte. Her form seems to begin leaking into the atmosphere, the soft, dark shadows of her body blending into the air.

 

“Wha-” They aren’t dancing any longer, with feet or with their bodies (fingers wandering just enough), but standing in the yard, holding each other's’ hands and feeling each other’s bodies, feeling the way their presences’ seem to meld into one another, like galaxies swirling around and around until they become one. 

“I have to go soon.” The Moon tries to stifle a yawn, a soft hand covering her mouth. Charlotte’s hands drop from her waist. She almost mentions the cold bed in her cabin, but she doesn’t want to go inside. Not yet. 

“Where- Why?” There’s a drop in Charlotte’s stomach. 

“I cannot stay here forever. I have to rest.” The moon murmurs, meeting Charlotte’s gaze. Charlotte doesn’t look away this time, her own eyes wide and pleading. “I already was not supposed to come here. But I- You seemed so alone, and so warm.”

Charlotte isn’t certain about what to say, so all that falls out of her lips is, “W-was I?” 

The Moon gives a small, sad smile. “Yes.” It isn’t clear if she means the loneliness, the warmth, or both. She leans forward and kisses Charlotte’s cheek. There is nearly no sensation in the act, her form continuing to whisk away and away the lighter the dawn becomes. “To answer another of your questions, yes. I am happy, when I look down and see you.”

She looks up at the fading dark sky, and her face pools with a familiar expression that Charlotte sees in the mirror every time she wakes up.

The Moon hands Charlotte one of the primroses in her hair; it’s closed up, tightly wound around itself once more as it waits for the next ray of moonlight to hit its buds. “Come back.” She says. She gets a nod in return, but it’s uncertain. Hopeful, but unclear. 

“I will watch over you.” She says, and her voice is barely there, just a whisper. Charlotte looks down at the flower in her hand, smells the faint aroma of lemon and earth that seems to emanate from it, and when she looks up, the Moon has completely faded from view. She sucks in a lip, then places the unbloomed flower carefully behind her ear. 

She watches the sunrise, sitting in the grass and holding herself tightly, shivering as the morning breeze tickles her flesh. Only once the slow, fat meandering bumblebees start to sleepily buzz on their way to pollinate the morning flowers does she get up, turning towards the cottage.

The study window is still lit by the lamp that Charlotte forgot to turn off, but it no longer seems to be searching for something. Rather, Charlotte feels its draw, like a moth to light, her fingers itching as untold stanzas and lines begin to bloom in her mind for the first time in months.


End file.
